Ignore Everybody Else
by one.twilight.sun
Summary: One shots and drabbles of Sherlock/Molly. 1: Dark!Sherlolly


"She hasn't moved for some hours. We think she's asleep," the guard tells him, uncertainty clear in his voice.

Annoying.

Sherlock ignores him as he watches the small, unmoving figure through the one-way glass. In some part of him, there is a twinge of guilt that it came to this. But the majority ruling feeling (those sentimental and seldom indulged things) was victory and satisfaction and fierce protectiveness.

She was his and she was safe. That was what mattered.

"Sorry, sir?"

Hm, he must've spoken aloud.

Without turning his head, he glances sidelong at the guard. Still living with his mother, only doing this because his older brother recommended him, wants to be a veterinarian, had just come back from an unauthorized break to the bathroom. Expendable.

The guard seems to sense the genial menace surrounding the taller man and steps back, scrambling to open the door when Sherlock moves towards it.

The door shuts with an audible click but the blankets don't stir, nothing really indicating that she was awake. The room she's being kept in isn't a typical cell: the carpet is lush, the walls warm cedar, the bedclothes silk.

He stands there for a moment, giving her the opportunity to acknowledge him, a courtesy he grants to so few. For all his intellect, he has not pinpointed for himself when a professional disinterest in this shy and awkward pathologist had turned into an unrelenting obsession.

He supposes it was her steadfastness in the face of the supposed ruination of his reputation and career as a Consulting Detective, or her willingness to help him fake his death. Or perhaps it was the comfort she attempted to give him afterwards.

There are no regrets manipulating her as he did. It was necessary so that he could be reborn as Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Criminal, the one and only. Jim Moriarty had always been a lie, a way to throw Mycroft off his scent. But now that he had finally finished unlocking the web that Mycroft had woven over his network and captured the king, Sherlock was able to reveal his true nature.

But with that, those who would want to get revenge against his crimes or those criminals whose work he'd exposed to further his own business would come after him and those he considered his. Molly included. Sweet, innocent Molly.

She hadn't been willing to meet with him once he'd been exposed. Love her as he might, he wasn't one to chase after someone. It was good for his men that they'd handled her with care, as he'd checked for himself when she was first brought in.

"Molly Hooper." Her name rolls off his tongue like it normally does, the l's caressed and the syllables clearly defined. There is no response and his irritation flares into something just a bit more.

He's taken half a step forward before he realizes his mistake, his one thing that he always misses, just as feels a small hand and chilly metal encircle his wrist, suddenly paralyzed in movement. There's a buzzing in his head as she moves in front of him.

There's a scramble at the door as the incompetent guard gets it open, only to be met with a bullet from the small pistol held in Molly's hand. She barely glances at the body before meeting Sherlock's widened eyes. The smirk that crosses her face is wholly unfamiliar yet so right for her features. Everything that he's known about her, the little bits that never seemed to quite fit, interlock with the data just brought to light.

She stands confidently in front of him, seeming to know she has time before more guards come. She knows that he can't move and seems to be waiting for him to reach a conclusion. Something must've shown in his eyes because her smile morphs from that knowing smirk into a genuine smile.

"Hello, Sherlock. Good of you to finally reveal who you truly are." She sounds the same. Looks the same. But isn't all at once. The mousiness, the awkward mantle that always lay upon her is gone.

He wants to—he's slightly surprised at himself, because he isn't too sure exactly _what _it is he wants to do—speak, punish her, pull her close—but he wants to do _something_. His eyes blaze.

"Oh, fine." The electronic vibration under his skin cuts off as she touches his wrist again, bringing the cuff up in front of him to see. "It's something that I put together in my spare time."

He grabs her petite frame, pulling her up against him. She doesn't fight or struggle, in fact, stretches herself, catlike against him.

"You." It's the only word he speaks, an echo of a long ago night when she was just a pathologist and he was just a consulting detective.

Her smile softens and she brings a soft hand to frame his face, fingers lightly tracing a sharp cheekbone. He can't look away. While the quiet Molly had brought him to obsessive protectiveness, this Molly captivates him. "I want to help you. I have certain…skills, that would be of use."

He sucks in a breath at this, her double entendre not lost on him. He feels his own smile growing as she pulls him in for a kiss.


End file.
